


past the last exit (AT YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD MCMETTA)

by dabblingDilettante



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Black Romance, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingDilettante/pseuds/dabblingDilettante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your unshaking dedication to his horrible brand is a better sign of your loathing than any step towards escaping could ever show, to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	past the last exit (AT YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD MCMETTA)

**Author's Note:**

> [burgerpants voice] AND IN MY LIFE I HOPE I LIE AND TELL EVERYONE YOU WERE A GOOD BOSS
> 
> I AM DROWNING (IN THE SEQUINS YOU INSIST NEED TO BE SEWN INTO EVERY BURGER), THERE IS NO SIGN OF LAND (BECAUSE I'M TRAPPED IN THIS OCEAN OF GLITTER YOGHURT YOU CALL A PARFAIT)

Another day. Another hour.

In the last quarter of this single shift, every monster who has sidled through the automatic door of the stand has called you Burgerpants. As Mettaton refused to give you an employee's name tag, after informing you that such ubiquitous individuality was bound to ruin the carefully cultivated atmosphere for customers coming in to eat, you can't do much in the way of telling anyone that your name is in fact _not_ Burgerpants. Not now, at least. You have long assumed that even if you did, they would laugh at you, and continue on with referring to you as such, due to the fact that this universe is all together unusually cruel and actively trying to make your miserable existence as agonizing as monsterly possible.

This was also Mettaton's fault.

Mettaton, with his shiny steel box body, transcending the image of a warm lumpy junk jockey like yourself, probably had charmed even the cosmos to his side, for the sake of all matters in ruining your life.

He comes in, once every three hours and fourty-six minutes on the dot, waving his arms wildly in yet another introduction of in-betweens to the endless television productions he puts on. This isn't real, of course - no, this is just another _practice_ session, that he is saving just for you, and as the sliding doors close behind him, you can see a chimera watching the infuriatingly famous bot. Their eyes land upon you, in the following moment, recognition lighting in their eyes as they mouth something. Your smile warps your face almost inside-out.

 _Burgerpants._ You're sure of it. It couldn't be anything else.

"Hello and welcome to another Break Time Check with none other than our beeeeloved," he begins, drumrolls along the walls of the miniature ovens piling up, until confetti begins to rain down from the ceiling, "Mettaton!" He makes finger-guns with his cartoonish over-sized hands that you've heard more than one young catling talk about wanting to give _them_ a scratch between the ears. Until you clap, he won't go on, and you take as long as possible to slap your palms together, staring at the paper that continues to fall from the ceiling.

You're going to have to clean that up. Another dreadful fact of grease glitter purgatory.

"There's no filming going on right now," you begin. He remains frozen, the last dregs of the midi installed for the metal-activated speakers droning into one insidious note as time goes on. Perhaps you are missing something - after all, someone has to notice you eventually. Eyes flashing around the room in empty hope, you go on, "Is there?"

Mettaton opens up a can of laughter. "Of course not, darling!" Pinpricks of metal snakes bounce off your face and into the folds of your shirt. "However, one cannot simply come into a room without a proper fanfare, without the proper question! This is an important part of learning what it takes to be a true celebrity." His arms extend around the room, longer and longer, streaks of metal and dogs dizzying you, until a hand lands upon your shoulder. "Any beautific individual, such as myself, must command an air of mystery! All my dear viewers must have questions on the tips of their tongues, and especially you." At this point, you fear your smile may begin to pucker so far into your face that a black hole will form. "Those who put themselves to the challenge of give themselves over to fame truly understand the art of it ... though I can understand," his hand snaps back into his body, "Not everyone is made for it."

You squeeze your hands together, dreaming of having nails so as to dig into your own skin, before squeaking out, "Mhm!" The music above always plays, never stopping, never changing, you say, "Not like you!"

A hand pressed to his chassis, the lights along his body flash bright enough to make your eyes water and melt. "Precisely, sweetheart! I'm so pleased you understand."

"Oh yeah, you know." Your skin feels like MTT Brand Putty Glue as you rub your fingers together, dry skin scales dig further and further into your palms. The eternity of your servitude to a cruel cube, a monster in metal trappings, would never allow you the kindness of forgetting. "It'd be a little hard not to know after working here for a year!" Precisely, seventeen months, twenty-two days, and too many extra shifts called in after the work schedule had been lost in a freak battery acid accident while preparing enough Starfait stock, but it was fine. It was all fine. Even if only you knew. 

"No, no, no, truly!" He wheels around the room, up the walls, tracking sequins along as he goes. "Rule number three of being a star, never ever play down your own magnificence!

"Oh," you say. "S-so do you think maybe I could ... get a raise? Or something?" The endless whir of whatever powers stars and celebrities goes on, until you feel yourself evaporating into nothing but an empty mask of an employee.

Eventually, Mettaton spins - lights shine down from above, and he pronounces, "I'm quite afraid not!"

He doesn't need to explain why.

It's because of lengthening a dining hall no one ever attends to.  It's due to hiring a comedian who spends seventy-five percent of his time on the job crying, in comparison to you, who only cries twenty-three percent of the time on the clock!  And then there's those beds that could allow for thirty people to sleep in, or that person who just lives in the fourth room down, shoving out hush puppies that you eat because it's the only thing you can afford on your disgustingly small paycheck.  Because he just installed that _fountain_ , that he reports is also meant to be a communal shower, even though you know the truth. You know everything. He's spending all this money to spite _you_ , even if everyone else turns away, their apathy just proving how much they've all been tricked by this metal menace, and even though he won't give you a raise, you can't quit - you can never quit. No one understands like you do. No one _knows_ like you do.

Plus, the last time you tried to quit, your leave of notice ended up burning in the Core. Whatever's up with that.

"Darling, darling, dear! Always understand, Mettaton knows best!"

Your smile twitches. "Of course!" Your unshaking dedication to his horrible brand is a better sign of your loathing than any step towards escaping could ever show, to begin with.

He leaves. Surely, there is a tremble to his metal cage. He knows how you feel. It shakes him to his own core, that one deep inside him, and one day, you'll make him melt straight through. Until that day, you're stuck making steaks in the shape of Mettaton's face.  There is a measure of glee in searing his face in lopsided, melting fashions, and you almost consider mentioning mettaton ice creams for the menu.  You don't.  You will never give him anything more than you already have - your soul is enough as is.

And eventually, the human enters.

Well. You light the end of a lollipop and stick the candy into your mouth. If there's anyone in this forsaken pit who might see through your hellish boss's human obsession, it would be this one.

"Let me tell you a few things, kid."

**Author's Note:**

> how serious am i about this.  
> thats a good question.  
> i honestly feel bad about not writing a fic about like. characters that matter or relationships that matter but. here i am. blackrom.


End file.
